I’m shocked. She
doesn’t know who I am. I shake her hand. “Tom…” I hesitate. “Tom Brady. Pleased
to meet you.”

“Might I ask what
brings you to Tripping Out! publishing, Mister…” She pauses, pursing her lips
together. “Brady?”

“To be honest?” I
suddenly feel the need to be. “I don’t exactly know.” I scratch the back of my
head. “Guess I just wanted to get a good look at this place, see what goes on
here.”

“Can’t see much of
what goes on here from the lobby.” She almost smirks. “Got an appointment?”

I get the feeling
she already knows the answer. “No.”

“Someone know you’re
coming?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, then, I’m
sorry, Mr. Brady.” The pretty brunette tilts her head. “Looks like
the lobby is the only thing you actually can see. We can't allow you in any
further without a guest pass. I hope you understand. Have a good day.” She
starts to turn. I grab her wrist. The motion shocks us both. The brunette
gasps, and I hear her breath hitch. It’s softer than a sigh.

Her skin is silky
smooth and the second I touch it, I know I’ve made a mistake… because for some
reason, I don’t want to let it go. Her hazel eyes are almost the color of her
hair, and it’s as if they’re on fire when they look at me, searing my
sweat-stained skin. She smells like the hue of her dark honey irises, as if she
were literally caramel-coated, and everything below my waist stirs from the
blush creeping up her neck, the slight shine of her full lower lip.

I look harder.

This girl isn’t
just pretty; she’s fucking beautiful, and I can’t help but feel turned on by
her unapologetic spunk as she snatches her wrist away, fixing me with a glare
that could start fires. She takes a step back from me.

“Don’t ever touch
me," she warns. She adds a softer note. "Please."

It’s a justified
comment, but there’s something in me, some whisper hidden inside my mind that
tells me that that’s exactly what I want to do—what I want her to do.

No, more than that,
really...

Right now, if I had
my way, that soft, satiny skin of hers would be begging for my touch… and I’d
only be too happy to oblige. She bites that lower lip, and I smile.

Natalie Wrye is a tequila connoisseur, Game of Thrones
addict and author best known for writing page-turning Contemporary Romance and
Romantic Suspense.

A Jersey Girl living in the South, when she's not obsessing
over a new Netflix series or yelling at college basketball games on TV, she's
usually crafting sexy stories about hard-bodied men and the strong-willed women
who crave them.

She loves it when people get weird with her on Facebook,
NatalieWrye.com or NatalieWrites@NatalieWrye.com.